


Caroline

by dee_ayy



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, S2Ep5 "The Weeping Lady"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_ayy/pseuds/dee_ayy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could not seem to get her out of his mind. </p><p>(Tag to Season 2 Episode 5, "The Weeping Lady.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caroline

**Caroline**

By dee_ayy

October 26, 2014

 

He did not want to be here today, not really, but the lieutenant had convinced him.

“But you enjoy it, Crane. You get a taste of ‘home,’ not to mention a chance to show off that big brain of yours.”

He’d chuckled at that last part, but it was what she said next that had made up his mind.

“She’d hate it if you stopped doing something you enjoyed because of her.” That was most certainly true.

So here he was, scrutinizing the people milling about in their period dress. She’d crafted most of these garments, he was certain.

He went straight to the headquarters tent. His encyclopedic knowledge of Revolutionary War battles had immediately made him a valuable asset to these re-enactors, and they had put him on the planning committee. But he hadn’t been at the Battle of Saratoga, and had been too preoccupied in the past days to do his usual research, so his knowledge of the details of today’s activities was scant.

No matter. The voices within stopped Crane dead in his tracks before he could enter.

“Poor girl. Suicide, don’t you think?”

“Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

“She was always alone, just her and that stupid sewing machine. She must have been lonely.”

“She told Linda that she liked someone. Maybe she got her heart broken.”

That last one was like a blow to Ichabod’s solar plexus. But what could he say? He certainly could not tell these people the truth, but he also could not stand here and say nothing.

“She most certainly did not take her own life!” he exclaimed as he charged in the tent.

“How can you be so sure?”

Crane paused. “Because.” What to say? “Because I spoke to her on the evening of her. . . .” For some reason he could not utter the word “death.” “I spoke to her that evening. Her last words to me were ‘See you Saturday.’ Today. Here. Would someone planning to commit suicide say such a thing?”

He could not stay here—the canvas walls of the crowded tent were suddenly suffocating to him. He also realized leaving now would raise suspicion; invite people to “talk.” But he could not concern himself with that. He could not stay here.

As he walked across the field toward his cabin, he spied the empty space where her haberdashery tent should be located.

People had piled flowers there.

He started to run.

 

X*X*X*X*X

 

He pounded the dough with more vigor than was necessary, he knew, but it felt good, so he continued.

He enjoyed baking bread, a skill he’d learned as a child from Cook. He’d adored his parents, of course, but as was common in his time, he'd found his real companionship elsewhere. For him it had been the manor staff: the gardener, the stable hands, and Cook, who had taught him many skills as he pestered her daily in the kitchen.

Including how to make a fine loaf of bread.

He’d been making a lot of bread in the last couple of weeks, and not just for the cathartic release that came with working the dough.

There was nothing better with hand-churned butter than homemade bread.

The butter was almost gone, though. Would he continue this baking once it was, he wondered? Or just return to the perfectly serviceable loaves available at the local bakery?

He did not know. So much of what he found himself doing lately was utterly baffling to him.

The preserves still sat sealed on the shelf.

He couldn’t bring himself to touch them.

 

X*X*X*X

 

Sometimes, in the morning, he did not even want to dress; every stitch of his clothing a reminder.

One time he even found himself digging up the threadbare shirt he’d worn when he awoke here. It was practically in rags, and he’d tucked it safely away after he’d acquired so many fine replacements. But he hadn’t been able to discard it. Sentimental.

As he was pulling it out of its place in the back of the drawer, he wondered what he was doing.

As he slipped it over his shoulders, his fingers running over one of the multitudes of mended tears, he told himself he was being absolutely ridiculous.

As he fastened the ties, he considered Miss Mills’ reaction when she saw it again. When last she had, she’d advised him to “burn the damned thing.”

And as he slipped his coat on, he suddenly stopped. Not even his original clothing was free of her memory.

He looked down at the button on his left side, the one she had reattached for him that day.

The one, he now realized, that was much shinier than the rest, the result of someone who had taken to rubbing it constantly.

He pulled the coat off and hurled it onto his bed.

 

X*X*X*X

 

As he pondered the crockery in front of him, he had to wonder why he’d kept it.

That confounded mug, sitting there, Founding Fathers being “hearted” every time he opened the cabinet door. He should have handed it over as evidence, but he hadn’t. He’d deposited it in his coat’s ample pocket and taken it home. Washed it carefully and placed it on the shelf where it now sat.

He never used it.

Abbie had taken it down once, having forgotten its significance, or perhaps unaware that it was the very same mug.

Without a word he’d snatched it from her hand, returned it to its place, and given her another.

“Woah. Ohhhhkay,” is all she’d said; all she’d needed to say.

If she hadn’t known before, she knew then.

He couldn’t touch it. No one could.

He couldn’t get rid of it, either.

 

X*X*X*X

 

Another difficult morning in front of his wardrobe.

Why? Why was this still so hard?

He’d consider these questions, sometimes, but never allow himself time to seek out the answers. There was too much work to be done to indulge in wallowing, he’d tell himself, and push the thoughts away.

Until the next time they rose to the surface, as they inevitably did, and with alarming frequency.

As he saw it, he had two options: either put something on, or go to the horrible modern clothing Miss Mills had purchased for him at the start of the year.

As difficult as this was, that prospect was worse. And it would dishonor her.

The blue shirt with the lace-up front; yes, he would wear that one. His favorite.

And hers, too--for, she'd told him, it matched his eyes.

What a fool he'd been. He should have known.

 

X*X*X*X

 

For the love of God, it had been well over two months.

He still hadn’t touched those preserves.

 

X*X*X*X

 

That blasted pillow. He’d kept it out, couldn’t hide it away, but placed it on a seldom-used chair, turned around so only the solid crimson velvet of its back was exposed.

But Miss Jenny had sat in that chair last night, and had removed the pillow to the floor.

So there it was, decorative side visible, staring up at him.

He picked it up and sat on the sofa, gently running his fingers over the fine handiwork. She was so very gifted with a needle and thread.

I. C.

Ichabod Crane.

Or, perhaps, Ichabod _and_ _Caroline._

The poor, poor girl.

He felt tears run down his cheeks before he was even aware he was crying, and wiped them away with the back of his hand.

He was being silly. It had been three months, one week, and four days. He had gone through all the motions: mourned her, memorialized her, buried her.

But until now, three months, one week, and four days later, he had never wept for her.

His door opened, and he heard the light steps of the lieutenant as she entered. He’d been expecting her, and when that was the case, the formality of knocking had long-ago been abandoned.

He did not look up.

“Hey, Crane,” she started breezily, but sensing something, she immediately stopped.

“You OK?”

He didn’t reply, still gazing at the careful embroidery. Her stitches were uniform, delicate, and beautiful.

Abbie walked around to face him, and saw the item in his hands.

“Oh,” she said quietly, and sat beside him.

“Want to talk about it?”

He finally looked up to gaze upon his partner.

“What is there to say, lieutenant? Miss Caroline has been dead these three months, an innocent, a victim of her honest affection for me, and I cannot seem to get her from my mind.”

“Wasn’t your fault, you know.” Leave it to Miss Mills to get right to the heart of it.

Crane bristled slightly. “True. I was not responsible for the Weeping Lady’s actions, just as I was not responsible for Katrina’s deceit, just as I was not responsible Mary’s fate at the riverbank, just as I was not responsible for her decision to follow me to the Colonies. It goes on and on and on!” He leapt to his feet and started to pace, crushing and twisting the pillow between his hands as he did.

“I’m not responsible, lieutenant, yet I _am._ I seem to find myself at the center of so many horrible, horrible events. Events that are _not my fault_ , yet never would have transpired _if not for me!_ Need I remind you? Two horsemen of the Apocalypse, _TWO_ , exist on this earth as we speak. Because of me.”

He looked down at the pillow he was in danger of tearing asunder, and suddenly stopped, turning his attention back to Abbie.

“Every word I speak is true, as you know. And most of these events are far worse than the tragic death of one young lady. And yet it is that death, it is Caroline, I cannot seem to get past.” He dropped the pillow onto its chair, not caring that the embroidery remained prominent as it landed.

“Perhaps I am losing my mind at last.”

“Crane,” Abbie admonished as she placed her hand gently upon the small of his back; he had not even realized that she’d stood. “You’re not losing your mind. Sit.” She steered him back toward the sofa, only sitting herself after he had.

“Maybe her death was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. That means,”

He interrupted her. “I know what it means, thank you lieutenant. That phrase, or something quite similar, existed in my time.”

Abbie nodded. “Good. Okay then. You’re right. So much terrible stuff has revolved around you. Around _us._ It’s been a veritable shit storm.” His eyebrows shot up at her crude language, and when that made his friend smile, he reciprocated with a small one of his own. “And if prophecy has anything to say about it, it’s not gonna get any better. Not for a good long while, right?”

He nodded.

“So everything sucks, right? And along comes this girl. She’s nice. She’s pretty. She feeds your need to stay connected to your old life. Hell, she literally puts the clothes on your back. And she’s someone who has _nothing_ to do with your role as a Witness. Right?”

Another nod. He suddenly knew where she was going, and she was absolutely right.

“She was your own little safe haven, if you will, even if she liked you a lot more than you realized. And then, WHAM, she’s snatched away. Not only taken, but taken _by_ the shit storm. “ Abbie reached out and took his large hand between her two delicate ones, pulling it on to her lap. “It’s no wonder, Crane. No wonder at all. You’d lost everything when you got here. And you started to slowly piece little bits of a life back together, and Caroline was an important part of that. And then you lost that, lost her, too. It’s no wonder.”

Crane squeezed her hand with his before pulling it away, and stood to renew his pacing, though he was less agitated now.

“Yes, of course, you are right. I had not allowed myself to consider what Miss Caroline had meant to me beyond that of a valued acquaintance.”

“It was too hard,” the lieutenant interjected.

“Perhaps. And though I tried to push it all from my mind and focus on the larger task at hand, I could not. I could not because,” he picked up the pillow again, displaying it to Miss Mills, “she is everywhere.” He dropped it again, and plucked at his shirt, pulling it away from his chest. “I quite literally take her with me everywhere I go, do I not?”

Abbie chuckled. “I guess you do. And that’s okay. And it’s okay to still miss her, you know. I realize you don’t have a lot of friends here. So that’s why you insisted on speaking to her that night, to make things right.”

“Indeed, it does give some small measure of comfort to know that our friendship had been repaired before. . . well, before.”

Abbie patted the seat beside her. “So why don’t you tell me about her; you never really have. You’ve got a pile of clothes, so I know you’d seen a lot more of her than I knew about. What’d you guys talk about?”

Ichabod smiled sadly and sat down. After a moment, he took a deep breath and began to speak. “Did I ever tell you the tale of our very first meeting?”

“No, not in any detail. Knew you met her at a reenactment over in the valley, but that’s it.”

“Yes, well, I mistook her for Katrina at first. Surely you noted the resemblance.” Abbie nodded. “But that was not the most charming part.”

“Oh?” Abbie asked. “What was?”

“She called me _dude._ ”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I was so sorry to see Caroline die, not only because she was a sweet and fun character, but also because, as he'd said, Ichabod has "precious few friends in Sleepy Hollow." So that got me thinking. What if he took her death a lot harder than we thought? Here is the result.


End file.
